I don’t wear heels much anymore. It’s a rare occasion, and because I have somewhere to be, a place where heels are a part of the uniform.
Hmm. That sort-of makes it sound like I work somewhere like Hooters. I don’t, though. Implied uniform, not overt.
Maybe the footwear change was compounded by all the snow and ice this year, with sidewalks so slick, it was safest to keep feet as flat as possible to lessen the chances of the world sliding out from underneath. Maybe it’s because I reached the point where the discomfort-to-cuteness ratio slipped into the “What’s that pain for again?” range.
But writing at home, I only wear socks, or, when the wind blows in a certain direction and comes in through the crevices, slippers. I’m strictly no shoes in the house.
And do I need to balance my weight on the tiny tip of a heel, my foot as extended as Barbie’s, when I walk up to the store to get groceries?
Perhaps I’m not as glamorous as I used to be. Perhaps I never really was, I was only fitting myself into the pre-cast mold, into the expected shape that takes a little trimming of your factory-issued parts.
I guess I’d rather spend my time thinking up entirely new worlds than thinking about how much my feet hurt and wondering how long it will be until I can be comfortable again.